Marionettes
by Gothika Faerie
Summary: Despite everything, Meena and Agni were not completely truthful to Prince Soma about the former's departure. There had been a void of information left unexplored. Words better left unsaid, actions better left ignored and scattered among the ashes.


A/N: Hi all! Yes, I am alive and I've finally managed to log back into my account. So, I'm currently in my Black Butler phase, particularly because we just celebrated Agni's birthday (May he forever rest in peace, the darling.) Yeah, this is definitely not your typical Agni pairing but I ship this in a dark, extremely one-sided unrequited, full of angst and darkness way. This was originally a one-shot but I'm going to add perhaps some extensions, some more detailed scenes in following chapters. Enjoy.

Meena loathed the palace life. Born into her place and imprisoned by the infernal caste system, the four walls, gilded and beautiful as they were, closed in on her. And that damned brat, with his incessant laughter, demands and constant need for attention. By Vishnu, no woman, nay no human being should be forced to endure such badgering. She glares at him now, reclining like the pile of lazy bones he was, pampered within an inch of his delicate, swarthy and athletic physique, surrounded by other palace girls. They were all a dime a dozen, stupid, airheaded and did not see the stars for the moon. She would be different. She would leave and make a name for herself. No more recurring mountains of endless laundry. No more mustering painful smiles to please that spoiled mess of a future monarch. Let India fall to its knees, not her. She would escape.

Then, Prince Soma interrupted an execution, freeing a criminal Brahmin and brought him back to the palace as his khansama.

Meena peeks out from behind a tapestry and her heart races, taking in steel grey eyes, penetrating yet tender, white hair kempt save for two strands, lending him a primitive charm and a face so handsome, she swore he could have been the human form of the great Shiva.

"Your Highness." How she hated the girlish tremble in her voice, the way her knees quaked as she stepped forth, needing to see that the man before her was real. Prince Soma grinned that inexplicably infuriating grin and introduces the man. She watches him bow. Before her. Hands folded, his beautiful visage breaking into a respectful smile. He had her with five words. Hook, line and sinker.

"You must be Miss. Meena."

"Yes," She fumbles with her skirt and drops to a curtsy, eyes never once leaving his face. "And…and you are?"

"Agni."

Fire. Hot, passionate, sweltering, destructive, warm, lethal, comforting, and alluring. Meena decides very deliberately to delay her departure for just a little while longer.

Time passes and Meena's ardor bloomed. The new khansama in his olive-green tunic, gold and white sash and white slacks, white hair wrapped neatly in a tunic, cut the figure of the gorgeous prince in any girl's innocent desires growing up. His right hand was bandaged up to the elbow. Hand of Kali, he confided in her when he caught her staring as he helped in the kitchen. The other palace girls gossiped gleefully like contemptuous harpies over the most delectable new addition to the palace. Meena was dissatisfied, but not one to give up that easily.

She took baby steps. Lightly brushing against him when reaching for a certain spice. Oh, I'm sorry. She took more efforts in her appearance, swiping powder from the other girls to add colour to her cheeks, highlight her doll-like features and brushing out her hair. She attempted as much as she could to accentuate her figure in the sarees she did have. She preened, she primped, she flirted, and she flitted. Agni either didn't notice or care. He behaved as normally to her as ever, not interested in the slightest as to her ulterior motives for hovering over him, following his every step and shadowing his every action. Meena's ardor blossomed into all out heat.

"What are you doing?" He questions when she attacks him out of the blue, trying to press her lips to his. Her cheeks burn, but the words come out. Clumsily, each stilted syllable is confronted.

"I…I…I wa...want you..."

"Miss. Meena. I apologize deeply…but we cannot be together. It is improper for me to dally with the prince's caretaker. Moreover, what must always be our top priority is his happiness, not ours. I am sorry but, I must tell you right now I have no feelings for you…I never have."

The shattering was not only the bowl she picked up and smashed on the floor before she ran, bolting from the kitchen and sobbing before she met her mattress. After a good long cry where the silk sheets were sodden with sorrow, Meena gathered up all her things and pocketed anything of value to be sold or bartered. Off she would go on the next ship to anywhere but here. She is met with a solid frame when she is about to pass through the doorway.

"What are you doing?" That same question. The same interrogator. Agni is more worried than ever, his eyes glued to the crude luggage she was carrying. Chin held high, eyes defiant, she announces her plans. That nothing was going to keep her here. She loathed her life and wanted nothing more of it. She is about to push past when he grabs her with that hand of his.

"The prince adores you! You'll shatter his heart!"

"I don't give a whit! My own heart's been shattered, and I don't regret passing that hurt onto someone else."

"Miss. Meena, please…be reasonable." His voice, so soothing, so creamy, she wanted to hear him whisper. She thrashed, she struggled.

"Let go of me or I'll scream! I'll say you molested me! You assaulted me!" He pulls him against her, covering her mouth and hissing for her to come to her senses, that she was drawing closer and closer to the realm of nightmares. Meena considers biting his fingers and bolting until his next words come.

"Please, Miss. Meena…tell me. What must I do for you to stay? To continue taking care of the prince? For trying to be happy?"

It was a simple decision, which evolved into a proposition and then, a transaction. Meena played the dutiful, loving caretaker that attended to all the prince's needs and wishes, even his whines for affection during the day. By night, she spread herself out like a platter of delicacies from far and wide for the prince's khansama. She bites her lip as he presses kisses down her breastbone, his tongue flicking her nipples. His bandaged hand tangles in her unruly, black hair. His other hand tightens around her bedframe. She clings. She arches, and the night is filled with the rhapsody of her passion.

When it was over, Agni would be overcome with the desperate need to evacuate his churning stomach. The purging made him feel worse. His skin, his being felt filthy, in extreme need for a good soaking in the River Ganges. To make love (hah, what a travesty of that term) to a woman he did not love, did not even consider so that she would fulfil her duties under, even a pretense of contentment. He wouldn't have wished that on anyone. Yet, he continues leaving his bedchamber and meeting the harlot at night to offer himself as a sacrifice like he would to his Goddess, Kali Matha. It was worth it to see the prince smile and laugh in Meena's arms, so blissfully ignorant of the blemished facts. He was a faithful, devoted and loyal khansama, this was all part of who he was now as decreed by that merciful release from execution.

Then, that sick, hateful part of him he wished to squelch with Kali's strength rears its ugly head, reminding him that for all his noble, righteous justifications for his disgusting actions, he enjoyed what he was doing. Meena, for once, was deliciously responsive. Every caress, every kiss and she was in raptures. She was pliable to his hands and lips, like a curry he would make, adjusting the heat to get it to come to perfect simmer, peppering it with hot spices to get it at the right consistency, the right heat, the right taste. He would be a filthy liar if, when he thrust in her, parting her sodden, sweet folds, he denies he feels any pleasure. The harlot was almost always wanting, needing. Her nails tear into his back, her teeth nips his shoulder. Her black hair is fanned out beneath her, heavy, luscious breasts rising and falling as he pays methodical, meticulous homage to her altar.

For those few heavenly moments of thrusting, grinding, holding and clenching and that glorious burst of pure ecstatic Nirvana, he was outside himself. He could enjoy without the stain of guilt. The moment, he came down from his high and was conscious of Meena snuggling up against him, happy as always to get what she wanted, the guilt washed over him like an oil slick. Out he would leap from the bed to vomit and he refused to return to bed until he had scrubbed at his skin till it was red and inflamed.

They carried on like this. How long? Indeterminate as torment does not have a calendar. The days blurred into months and Agni, resolute as ever, kept up appearances. Meena too, she was the perfect caretaker. Both were immaculate performers. Save for a few stray caresses she dealt when she helped him cook, which he would brush off and whisper "Tonight. Not now", they were as inconspicuous as his dying soul begging for release of this hideous contract.

No one is perfect. Not even him who hoped for it. He was sitting in her room, waiting for her this time, at her vanity, nursing the beginnings of a growing migraine. She slips in and is upon him, kissing his temple, ear and shoulder, whispering the soft desires that would make a prostitute blush. He stands and brushes her off.

"I can't do this anymore." He expects her affront.

"Why not? Am I not good enough? Do I not please you?" He did not expect her to hit him with both barrels. Her lobbing of questions, her growing mania and her loud, obnoxious voice, it was all too much with all the inner turmoil that had been festering within him and he turns, yielding to catharsis.

"Because I'm sick of this! Because you only care about yourself!" He storms out. She, to his immense shock, follows and grabs his arm, nuzzling her face – a wet, warm face – into it. She begs, she pleads, her voice is choked with the tears of a heartbroken soul.

"Please, please! Don't go." Then, the kicker. The poison laced dagger. The words that ended everything and began everything. "I love you…"

He tugs his arm free and whirls around, his eyes are wild and his expression incredulous. "I've had enough, Meena. This ends now. I could never love a woman as spiteful and selfish as you are. In fact, you are the last woman in India, nay, the entire world I could ever love."

Then, there was silence. Deafening silence. He still stands there, panting from the exertion even when she has departed, her steps capricious and again, with that same determination. He is still standing when he watches her slip out, not sparing him a look. He wishes he were deaf to her whimpers, blind to her slumped shoulders.

When Prince Soma turns over every stone, explores every nook and cranny and grows ever more restless in the days to come over Meena's disappearance, Agni can only give comfort. What else can he say? Or do? This was his secret shame, his first horrid crime after a lifetime of savagery. What could one expect from a former criminal? He vows as he watches Prince Soma descend into depression that when he does find Meena, he will try to make it right. He had been selfish for that one moment, that one moment where he beheld his dignity higher over the prince's happiness. That will never be his mistake again.

Thus, as he walks now behind Prince Soma after the curry contest, the prince humming a tune from his childhood lullabies, Agni tries not to think about Meena being carried away, sick and writhing. The most treacherous creature to exist is a woman embittered by hatred, with a heart of stone, a mind like a furnace and the beauty of a temptress.

She saw no reason to relive those memories to the prince, so she censored it, what would the brat know to do with that? It was not out of good will. It was not because she cared that they would fight. Certainly not because, as Meena lies in the hospital, contemplating the bizarre events, knowing Agni had come back to England, looking for her, she hoped that meant she was now worthy of him.

These words will burn away. They will never come to light. Just like an affair that should never have started and the argument that followed should never spark.


End file.
